


Fundamental Experiences

by bryar6



Series: A Wizard's Beginnings [2]
Category: Tales of Arcadia (Cartoons)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Child Abuse, Pre-Canon, Pre-Wizards, Trauma, Whump, character backstory, mild violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:54:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26690002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bryar6/pseuds/bryar6
Summary: Douxie's childhood was...unpleasant. A recollection of his life on the farm and what happens when his magical ability is revealed.
Series: A Wizard's Beginnings [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1941658
Comments: 4
Kudos: 51





	Fundamental Experiences

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings:
> 
> There is mildly described abuse/violence in this installment. It is mostly implied and not graphically described. The tags have the warnings. Just be mindful of this if you do decide to read.

Young Hisirdoux Casperan is at the fire, tending a pot of soup for his family. It is always “Hisirdoux, make us this” and “Hisirdoux, do this for us” and never “Can we do something for you, Hisirdoux?” But he had learned to live with it. They live on a farm in a wide expanse of fields outside of a small city. They are not very well off, but just enough to continue getting by every year. His family consists of two older siblings and both his parents, none of whom ever really showed that much affection for each other. 

But it’s all he knew. None of the other farm children said much about their own families, preferring to ignore reality in favor of playing knight and dragon among the corn. Their lives are somewhat plain, without any real education outside of what’s necessary to run the farms. He could walk a cow, ride a horse, plant all kinds of crops, but he knew little of writing. 

Growing bored of peering into the pot, he moves to the table. He drew up a stool and laid his head down on the table, proceeding to doze off, as a child had the tendency to do. 

\-------

A short while later, he is woken by his parents yelling his name. They must have come in from pulling the last squash. Blearily, he blinks himself awake.

“What is this, Hisirdoux? Did you really fall asleep while making soup? It’s not that hard. And look, you’ve burned it! What a waste!” His father crosses his arms, fingers twitching. 

“I-” Hisirdoux looks into the pot over the burned out fire. It’s certainly scalded and a strong scent of burn fills the air. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I was just tired, and I guess I took a nap…”

“Sorry isn’t enough, boy,” comes a low growl from his father. Reflexively, he cringes away. “You do things like this far too often. Look at me! Just last week you set fire to the table with a candle, let the goats into the potatoes, and lost our whole crop of carrots to rabbits. It’s unacceptable.”

The young boy cowers aside, holding an arm up. He remembers the consequences of a misstep. And there have been many of those. Old bruises throb with the memory. “Please, I didn’t mean it-”

“Sure you didn’t. But we can’t afford to waste food like that or lose anything. I said look at me!” The boy’s face is streaked with tears now. He peers up at him, vision blurry and heart pounding. His father is red-faced with anger. 

“I am! I am,” he pleads, tripping and falling to the floor. His mother looks on disdainfully. His siblings watch in muted terror. 

His father grabs him by the collar of his shirt, yanking him forward, raising his large hand to strike. Hisirdoux yelps and swings a hand out, trying to pull himself away and kicking his feet. “Please! Stop it!” he screams. The slap seems to echo in the small house. 

A blinding flash of blue light fills the room and the boy is dropped to the floor. He scuttles away against a wall, heart beating fast, throwing his arms over his head preparing for the worst. His cheek stings. When he finally opens his eyes, his father is picking himself up off the floor, a large, angry burn covering the arm that had just held Hisirdoux. They meet each other’s eyes for an uncomfortable amount of time.

The boy feels a stinging pain in his hand that he’d struck out with and finds a gleaming, bloody mark, running jagged down his thumb and wrist. Had that been magic? What did he do? And why did it hurt him?

“Get out!” his father screams. “I don’t ever want to see you again! Especially not if you’re some devilish magic-wielder. You’re no son of mine.”

The young boy looks to both of his parents, searching for any sort of sympathy. There is none to be had. With fresh tears pouring down his face, he runs into the yard and as far away from them as he can. He crashes through the corn stalks and reaches the stables near the field. He passes through the barn, briefly considering taking a horse and riding as far as he can. But he can only imagine the trouble he’d be in if they caught up to him. He bursts through the other set of doors and keeps running, feet pounding on the ground. He feels small rocks cutting into his skin, but it doesn’t matter. He just needs to get as far from here as possible. 

He eventually finds some small, abandoned grove in the forest, where he sits down and cries for a very long time, clutching his hand close to his chest. He vows to never look back.


End file.
